I Need My Medication
I need my medication. 4 small tubes. Each tube holds a different type of medicine. All placed in order of use. Aconitum. Gelsemium. Ignatia. Arsenicum. Each one is for a specific problem. I don't have just one problem; I have several mental issues, and those combined have caused me more than enough problems in my life. Heh. Try to figure out what is exactly wrong with me, judging by the list of medicines. Just for fun. Now, back to the point. All of the 4 above come in the form of small balls, in small tubes. I must take exactly 3 balls from each. 4 times a day. Except the last one. The last one must be taken before going to sleep along with the other 3. A bit confusing isn't it? Yeah. I know. But they work. They work. Each tube has a number on it, so I don't forget which is which and when I have to take each. The Fourth tube has the word “Night” on it, as its the one I take right before going to sleep. Obviously. They are all purple, except the Third one, that one is orange; always stands out for me. They are always with me, I have grown accustomed to their constant presence. I like how they are all in order. First three tubes lying next to together, from right to left in their exact order of use. Last one, away from them, by the edge of the table, again, is the most important tube. I must be careful and not confuse it with any of the other tubes; All ready for the using when the time is right. I always feel safe when they are like that. When someone comes to clean the desk and changes their order I have a little bit of panic. Funny, since one of them is the one in charge of keeping me from having panic attacks. I quickly check whats written on the tubes, then place them in order. I have taken my first dose of the day. By the way, in case you are wondering, it has been like this for a week now. Day by day I feel better. But today... My hands are shaking. Maybe it was the coffee I drank this morning. Or perhaps it is that oily man. I call that the idea that I may be dead. Why do I call it the oily man? Because the idea of me being dead is nonsensical, but it keeps running around my head mocking me, and each time I try to grasp it so I can kick it out of my head, it just slips off my imaginary hands. Like it was covered in oil. The medicine helps me kick the oil man out of my head, but it keeps coming back. Rome was not built in a day. But I'm sure back when Rome was being built they did not have to deal with a constant annoyance prancing around like it owned the place. Or maybe they did, I don't know. But I'm growing tired, and angry of this oily man. Just when I think it's gone, it comes back. And it keeps coming back. Each time weaker. Thinner. Yesterday I saw it... Him, I could see all of his ribs, his face, it reminded me of one of those starving kids in Africa. Man, was I happy to see him suffer like that. Now instead of prancing around, it just begs for a chance, a chance to go back to his old self. But I am not letting him. Because even if he isn't as annoying as he was before. His presence still bothers me. And still makes me nervous. Afraid that he still might be right. My parents are worried about me, they want me to get my vitamins tested or something. It's not the first time - I was sent to a hospital once to get my blood tested, see if I lacked something. All normal, I was perfect. Yet they did not understand why I was changing. Changing into what? I did not see anything changing, was I dying? That worried me. Then, one day it all stopped, guess they just got used to my “new self”. I still did not see any difference. And still don't. A year later, one night, I thought I died. I had a panic attack. After a few days, I was given these medicines. Boy, was I glad that they found me something that could help me get rid of all my problems. Mainly that oily man. This story might seem like a mess to you, I'm guessing the narrative is all over the place and is hard to follow, but I can't find any other way to tell my story. It's how I see things. Someone turned the TV on, and now my dog is barking for something, my hands are shaking even more, and I'm starting to hate everything. It's always been like that. Ever since that one night, I can only hate things. It's like my other feelings, such as happiness, love, sadness, pity, all just vanished, and I'm stuck with either hate - Or nothing. That oily man, he is responsible for this, for making me think I died that night, for making me feel guilty for pulling an imaginary trigger that obviously did not kill me, but he is paying for it, he is suffering now as much as I used to, or even more. Slowly dying. Thanks to my medication. I look at the clock now. Time to take some more. Hey. They work. They work. Category:Creepypasta Category:Creepypastas Category:Real Life Category:Original Story